


Crossbones Crossdressing

by ineswrites



Series: Hydra Trash Meme fills [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Dammit Westfahl, Gen, HYDRA Trash Party, Strike Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 17:38:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10995714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineswrites/pseuds/ineswrites
Summary: Yes, there is a lot of alcohol at Mercer’s party. Yes, they are playing truth or dare.None of this explains why Rumlow finds himself standing in the middle of the living room, squeezed into Mercer’s red dress.A fill for a prompt on hydratrashmeme.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Кроссдрессинг Кроссбоунса](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13497592) by [Schwesterchen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwesterchen/pseuds/Schwesterchen), [WTF_Brock_Rumlow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WTF_Brock_Rumlow/pseuds/WTF_Brock_Rumlow)



> [Prompt](https://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/2271.html?thread=4975071#cmt4975071): Brock would look good in drag, wouldn't he?  
>  A mission maybe, or hazing or something. I'd prefer it not too horrible, just some mortally embarrassing but mostly harmless fun.  
> Oh and humiliation is a yes.
> 
> Check out [this wonderful artwork](http://araydre.tumblr.com/post/167949302357/for-quillofchoice-3-thank-you-for-the-wonderful) by Araydre for a pretty Brock in a dress!

Yes, there is a lot of alcohol at Mercer’s party. Yes, they are playing truth or dare.

None of this explains why Rumlow finds himself standing in the middle of the living room, squeezed into Mercer’s red dress.

At least he thinks the dress is Mercer’s. He squints at it, trying very hard to focus through the swimming in his head. The dress is short – it ends above his knees, exposing his hairy legs – and tight; it hugs his chest so much he’s sure he’ll rip it if he breathes too deeply, and he can only take half a step. At least it’s sleeveless, so he can move his arms around freely.

Talking about taking steps – his feet hurt. His gaze travels beyond the dress’s lacy hem, his knees and hairy shins to his feet. He’s wearing high heels. He takes a moment to process this discovery.

The high heels make sense, he decides. They explain why he’s slightly wobbling. They are also too small, judging by his heels sticking out of them. They are red, what also makes sense. They match the dress.

So high heels make sense. The dress doesn’t. Because the high heels are connected to the dress, Rumlow is sure, therefore they do not make any sense either.

Which brings him back to square one. Why the hell is he wobbling in the middle of the living room, squeezed into Mercer’s clothes?

That thought brings his attention to something else: his current location. The living room. Where people are living. Where people _are_. Warily, he raises his gaze from the outfit he has been so focused on. Meeting somebody else’s eyes confirms his concern: _he’s not alone._

“Woah, boss,” the owner of the eyes says in Westfahl’s shrill voice. “Wow.”

Rumlow wants to hit him for some reason. It makes sense. He usually does.

“What are you waiting for?” Mercer asks from the other side of the room.

Rumlow moves to face her maybe too fast; he stumbles and barely catches himself before falling. Mercer grins at this. Unlike Westfahl, who’s vegging out on the green leather couch, she’s standing by the table that is completely covered with bottles of various alcohol in various states of depletion. From the way she’s holding her phone, and the fact she’s staring at it rather than him, Rumlow concludes she’s taking pictures. His face heats up, and if anyone was to confront him about it, he’d say it’s because he’s drunk. His head is swimming, he has trouble thinking clearly, he can’t remember why he’s wearing a tiny dress, therefore he must be drunk. It occurs to him that all three are also symptoms of a mind wipe, but there is alcohol standing right before him and no wiping chair in sight.

“You were supposed to sing ‘Genie In A Bottle’,” Mercer continues.

Okay, what?

“I don’t know the words,” he says – slurs, as a matter of fact – to buy himself some time to try to figure out what the hell is going on. Also, because he doesn’t know the lyrics.

He tunes out Mercer’s complaining and tries to get his mind to work. His team is here. Is this a mission? He dresses up for missions sometimes. Never as a woman, but still. He shakes his head, the movement making him stumble to the side on his wobbly legs. He’s drunk and at Mercer’s. Unless his mission is to seduce Westfahl to gain his trust and then cure him from stupidity via a bullet – which it isn’t, because even Westfahl isn’t that stupid – his current situation is not work related.

“He knows ‘Beautiful’ though,” Rollins says suddenly.

Rumlow’s eyes dart to him; he hasn’t noticed him earlier, as he’s sitting still as a statue in the far back of the room. He looks bored, but Rumlow knows that expression – inside, he’s dying with laughter. Rumlow feels similar to dying himself, but he’s far from laughing. He’d rather be somewhere else right now. Preferably alone. Preferably not in a dress. He touches his cheek; it’s very hot beneath his not so cold hand.

Mercer raises her eyebrows first at Rollins, then at Rumlow. “Really?”

“Only because Westfahl plays it on the loop whenever he’s driving,” Rumlow feels inclined to defend himself.

Rollins raises his eyebrows as well. “If you don’t like it so much, why do you let him drive?”

Rumlow fails to find an answer to that question, so he tries to focus back on the problem at hand. Truth or dare, his mind helpfully suggests. So. Maybe it does explain the dress, and the heels, and the singing after all.

“Sing ‘Beautiful’ then,” Mercer says.

It’s alright, Rumlow tells himself. It’s a dare. He has done stupider things for a dare. Half as embarrassing, but stupider. And he’s gonna come up with something even worse the next time somebody asks him for a dare.

Forgetting about Mercer’s phone, he clears his throat and starts to sing. “ _Every day is so wonderful…_ ”


	2. Chapter 2

When he wakes, his thighs are bound, so he sits up to investigate. He immediately regrets it: his head starts spinning and his stomach protests. His saliva turns watery and he swallows it down, wincing at the disgusting taste in his mouth. Waiting for his stupid body to calm down, he looks at his thighs. They’re not bound. He’s still wearing the dress for some reason. It’s tight to begin with, but now it’s also twisted around his legs. At least he’s lying in a bed and not in a ditch.

“Mornin’,” a gruff voice says on his right and he falls out of bed.

When he looks up, Rollins is raising his eyebrows at him. He wills himself to relax. They shared a bed before, and they’re both dressed, so it’s fine. Rumlow’s still wearing the dress, so it’s less fine, but it’s finer than it could be. At least the high heels are gone.

“Why am I still wearing this?” he asks as he gets up and smooths the lacy fabric.

“You like it, apparently,” Rollins says. “Makes you feel pretty.”

“That’s bullshit,” Rumlow grumbles.

Feeling his face heat up and his head swim – he still must be a little drunk – how much has he had, exactly? – he takes off the offending piece of clothing. When it’s finally gone and he can breathe again, Rollins just stares at him with a stunned expression. And then he bursts in laughter.

“The hell?” Rumlow asks.

Rollins saw him naked before, so it’s not that. Did something weird happen to his—

He’s not naked. He’s worse.

Apparently, when he went to dress himself up in Mercer’s clothes, his drunken mind decided the outfit wouldn’t be complete without a fitting underwear. Apparently, his drunken mind decided a pair of red satin panties would be fitting. Maybe they fit the dress, but they certainly do not fit him – they’re too tiny to fully cover his junk, and they’re riding up his ass. Which explains why he’s still uncomfortable.

Rollins starts hyperventilating. “I can’t breathe!” he wheezes. His eyes are wet.

Rumlow is torn between putting the dress back on and taking the panties off, neither of those sounding particularly appealing, so he stands still for a handful of seconds, trying to force his racing mind to cooperate. It doesn’t help his situation any.

“Shut the fuck up,” he tells Rollins, using his commander voice.

The result is opposite to the desired one: Rollins definitely doesn’t shut up, and the sounds he makes have less to do with laughter and more with suffocating. Rumlow finally tears the panties off – Mercer probably wouldn’t want them back anyway – and decides to shorten Rollins’s suffering via strangling him. As Rollins is in no state to defend himself, fighting to catch a breath while still laughing uncontrollably, Rumlow has no problem to close his hands around his throat once he climbs back on the bed.

This moment Westfahl chooses to walk in the master bedroom.

“Oh my God,” he says, immediately turning away and walking out. “Cynthia, where do you keep bleach? I have seen things…”

Rumlow groans, his hands letting go of Rollins’s neck. To his credit, Rollins stopped laughing and is now taking big gasps of air, so he did help him.

“I’m going to kill every one of you,” Rumlow promises in a low voice.

Rollins wipes his eyes. “Me too?” he asks. “I thought you had a soft spot for me.”

“And what gave you that idea?” Rumlow looks around, trying to determine what happened to his clothes. They’re not here.

“The lap dance you gave me.”

Rumlow blinks. “Somebody messed with your drink or something?”

“I’m serious. Mercer recorded it.”

Rumlow stares at Rollins for a long couple of seconds. “You’re messing with me.”

He’d remember doing something like that. No matter how drunk, _that_ he’d remember.

Rollins grins. “But admit, I got you there for a second.”

Rumlow pushes him off the bed.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always appreciated!


End file.
